


Live, Wilbur, although many skies have fallen

by rednow



Series: mishandled discs and memory books (dream smp) [4]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Afterlife, Angst, Character Study, Conversations, Family Dynamics, Flowers, Gen, Ghost Wilbur Soot, Ghostbur Centric, Ghosts, Hurt/Comfort, Inner Dialogue, Language of Flowers, Self-Hatred, Self-Love, Sleepy Bois Inc as Family, Unrequited Love, Wilbur Soot Centric, Wilbur Soot and Technoblade and TommyInnit are Siblings, ghostbur is like "ffs please i cant do this today bestie", graves, it has BOTH LET'S GO, it's basically wil and ghostbur talking, just think ghostbur & wilbur are a good reflection of inner and outer self talk mhm, roses to depict characters kinda?, they're the same person your honor, wilbur soot cries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 04:20:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29289744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rednow/pseuds/rednow
Summary: It is a curious thing to learn to hate yourself so deeply, you forget to love.Alivebur very much felt that way when he found himself staring at the grave in front.It is a curious thing to learn to love yourself so deeply, you forget to hate.Ghostbur very much felt that way when he found Wilbur crying into his lap.Or, one winter morning Wilbur visits Ghostbur's grave.
Relationships: Wilbur Soot & Ghostbur
Series: mishandled discs and memory books (dream smp) [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2140326
Comments: 22
Kudos: 202





	Live, Wilbur, although many skies have fallen

**Author's Note:**

> “We’ve got to live, no matter how many skies have fallen.” — D.H. Lawrence, Lady Chatterley's Lover

It is a curious thing to learn to hate yourself so deeply, you forget to love.

Alivebur very much felt that way when he found himself staring at the grave in front. 

It was a crisp Saturday winter morning and he was alone by himself in the cemetery. Scattered bouquets paid homage to the grave, all from weeks prior, now decaying with time to melt into the earth. Cold, brilliantly yellow sunlight filtered through, painting his low worn beanie and the side of his face in sharp shards of gold.

Jaw slack, Wilbur wrapped his arms around himself. The hollow in his chest never stopped growing. He often debates with himself that it started when Phil plunged him with his sword. 

“You were a shitty excuse of a man, y’know?” he said out loud.

The unconcerned silence picked itself back up. The trees which guarded the peripheries of the cemetery rustled briefly to exhibit their presence. 

Wilbur squatted to the ground next to the grave, the heel of his boots digging into the sunbaked soil beneath. "I tried to talk to Fundy today," he confessed.

"He hates me,” Wilbur whispered roughly, voice coming out broken. “My son—my  _ only _ son— _ hates  _ me.”

The grave gave no reply. 

“You did that.” Wilbur spit out, standing up. “You fucking–” He kicked the foot of the tombstone, stumbling when pain shot up his leg. “You’re a sick son of a bitch, Ghostbur.” 

Feeling too heavy, he sat back down on the patch of grass next to his tombstone and pulled his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them. The flowers laying around him were nauseating. A posy caught his eye—four shriveling roses tied together with string—and he picked it up. Each had newer buds at the internodes, which were starting to die out. 

The buds never had a chance to grow. The thought made him sad.

“Why, hello there, Wilbur,” came a greeting from behind, and he startled. 

Ghostbur appeared, looking down at him. “You’re not very nice, are you?”   
  
Wilbur stared incredulously before scoffing loudly. “Like you’re a fucking saint of a man.”   
  
“I am not,” he agreed, sitting down beside him next to his own tombstone. Wilbur groaned and buried his face in his knees in acknowledgement. “But then, I am only you after all,” said the ghost.   
  
“You’re not,” Wilbur’s voice immediately snapped, muffled from his knees. His face came up twisted in a scowl. Ghostbur was so fucking dumb. He ripped out a wad of petals from one of the roses in his lap. “You and me— we’re not—I am different! I am different—” Ghostbur held up a hand.

“What did Fundy say?” the ghost asked.

“I…” Wilbur trailed off, falling silent. “He hates you—” “—us,” Ghostbur corrected. “—You,” Wilbur overrode, “He says you were a terrible father. And now that I remember everything…” he turned away, “… can’t say he’s wrong.”

Ghostbur sighed. At a distance, heavy metal doors closed them in, circling behind the peripheral trees. The cemetery was always peaceful in the mornings. 

“Well, I suppose we deserve that,” Ghostbur said finally. 

Wilbur gave him a warning look. “Don't you dare,” he started, raising a finger and Ghostbur swiftly took the opportunity to nick the ripped rose from his clenched palm. “Don’t you  _ dare  _ pin the blame on me, you sick motherfuck—”

Ghostbur sighed again. It was really too early to be arguing with a manchild, he thought.

“We are the same  _ person _ , Wilbur,” Ghostbur tried again, ever patient. “How do you not see? Your energy is mine, you were moping near my grave today and it woke me up feeling like death.” Then, exaggerating intentionally: “I guess I  _ am  _ dead, but still, dude. Have some respect for a sleeping man, it’s not fun starting off my weekends this way.” 

Wilbur snorted lightly and Ghostbur was happy to have done his job.

He patted the tombstone, one side of his lips going up in melancholy. “They left me here. No one really visits me anymore,” he said casually, nodding his head at the flowers. “Their love lasted a week."

Love was something Wilbur wasn’t used to. Wilbur fiddled with the three dying roses in his lap.  _ Tommy _ ,  _ Phil, Techno.  _

How much more was he doomed to fail? He failed Phil at being a rational son, Tommy at being a loyal brother, Techno at being a better twin, Tubbo at being a diligent president and finally— Fundy, at being a parent. There wasn’t a single adjective fit to be added before that word, he had completely, utterly and terribly failed at raising a kid he was responsible for.

He was reminded of how old he was. 24 was old,  _ ancient  _ even in Wilbur's standards, and he should've carried the responsibilities on his shoulders with better grace.

He straightened out his long legs on the dry land. “Guess that’s what you deserve then,” he told his ghost.

Ghostbur's spine stiffened and Wilbur coughed awkwardly on noticing the glistening tears that sprung up in the faded eyes. “Well, uh –  I guess I didn’t mean it like that – ” He sputtered but Ghostbur just shook his head, his jaw set.

“It doesn’t fucking _matter_ , Wil, don’t you see?” he grinded his teeth, and Wilbur was positively stung at the sharpness in those words. “They’re never going to like us. Never! We fucked up.”

“You’re wrong.” Alivebur said, slightly feverish with his words. “You’re wrong, Ghostbur. They want to give me another chance. They’re trying to resurrect me.” 

A silence fell between them. It was almost as though he was trying to convince himself. The silence wasn’t comforting, Wilbur found, but it wasn’t exactly painful either. It just  _ was. _

Wilbur pushed back against the headstone.

He wondered if the ghost would ask him about the resurrection. There had been two failed attempts already, Phil doing all he could to bring him back, and Wilbur’s eternal dread at having to go back into existence and face people who once loved him—and now hated him—was starting to seep in.

But Ghostbur did nothing of the sort. Instead, he ripped out a rotting petal from the rose he had taken away from him and crushed it beneath his thumb and index. Wilbur cringed lightly. 

The fourth rose was him.

When the ghost finally broke the silence again, it was with a soft ‘Wil?’— one that reminded him of the times when he would stand alone in front of a mirror to talk himself up before big presidential speeches. 

Wilbur lined eyes with him expectantly.

Ghostbur looked at him carefully, half a rose dangling from his fingers.

“Why would you say second chance if you didn’t fuck up the first?”  
  


~

  


It is a curious thing to learn to love yourself so deeply, you forget to hate.

Ghostbur very much felt that way when he found Wilbur crying into his lap.

He wondered if it was his cloudy recollection that made it harder from him to hate. Wilbur hated him; he knew that. It couldn't be clearer from the way Wilbur didn’t even care to look at him once throughout his crying spree, using him only as a spare napkin.

But instead of running away from the situation, like he would have liked to, Ghostbur tried. 

“Please,” he said uselessly, repeating words. “Don’t cry.”

Wilbur clung to him, silent tearing, and the ghost didn’t know what to do.

“It’s alright. Hey,” Ghostbur murmured, running hesitant faded fingers through Wilbur’s hair. 

“Fundy wouldn’t have wanted you to cry.” 

At that, Wilbur looked up at him. "Shut up," he whispered, eyes watery and bloodshot in self disgust and paranoia. He furiously rubbed a hand into his eyes. “You are right.” he said, voice frightfully strangled from the crying. “You are right, and they’re not going to take me back.”

_ Everyone is broken _ . Ghostbur found words he’d penned down in a distant past come back to him.  _ But that’s how the light gets in.  _

In the early days of afterlife, Ghostbur had made the decision to write everything he remembered in a book, titled aptly ‘What I Remember’. It had pages and pages of bullet points, him clinging onto every bare fragment he could recall; from the smell of fresh bread, to sparring with Techno, to Phil killing him. 

That book was gone now, burnt to ash in the ravaging war. 

He focused back on reality. Wilbur was in pain, he could do this one thing at a time. Wilbur still rubbed his eyes, starting to calm down after a long cry, and Ghostbur forgot to cringe at the snot that was getting everywhere on seeing how red his face was.

He chose love. “They will,” he affirmed. Wilbur briefly paused his eye rubbing to look at him bleakly. 

Ghostbur made up his mind. If he was going to love, he would do it well. 

“They will, Wil,” he told him feverishly, almost trying to convince himself too. “You said they wanted to give us another chance.”

Wilbur no longer objected at the usage of second person and Ghostbur didn’t know if that hurt more or less.

“I’m scared.” Wilbur’s lip quivered. Then, shaking his head in disbelief, “God, I am such a pussy.”

He was reminded of how young he was. 24 was too young, and Wil's shoulders trembled from the immense weight they had carried. 

“Scared of what… love?” He added the pet name cautiously. Wilbur scrunched up his nose, eyes crinkling at the sides, but didn’t seem to want to bicker.

“Just being resurrected again.” Ghostbur nodded sympathetically. “Techno and Tommy would see me again and– They probably won’t even care.” Ghostbur disagreed. He watched him remove his beanie and put it back on after ruffling up his hair. “I’m just scared to– to live. To have to live again.”   
  
Ghostbur understood that better than anyone else. He picked up the horribly ravaged fourth rose and laid it delicately on the flat headstone. “What do you remember?” 

“That’s a bad question to ask.”

“Well, I’ve done it now.”

Wilbur sighed. He folded his legs up to his knees once again, back in the position Ghostbur had found him in. 

“November seventeen, two thousand and twenty.” Ghostbur started reading the epitaph on the headstone, evoking Wil’s attention. “Here lies Wilbur Soot. President, Citizen, Father, Brother, Traito – YOOOOOOOOOOOOO SUCK IT GREEN BOY – ”

Wilbur's tired exhale turned into a surprised laugh. “What in the world is wrong with you,” he smiled, shoving him.

“Wanted to make you laugh.”

“Hm.”

“That should've been your quote on this thing.” Ghostbur told him, gesturing a hand at the headstone. Wilbur didn’t have a reply.

When he finally spoke again, it was after so long that Ghostbur had almost forgotten he was there. He was playing with the ends of his hair, twisting them into intricate braids.

“Do you think people can change?” Wilbur asked, nudging his shoulder. 

Ghostbur let his braid fall apart.

He laid a hand on Wil’s shoulder, noting how it made him shiver slightly. That was a given. The afterlife was always cold, regardless of one’s sins or virtues. One was meant to spend the rest of their empty existence in longing, in wanting. 

“I think you’ve changed, Wil,” he confirmed. Wilbur glanced at him and he took it as a cue to continue. "I’ve changed too. I don’t remember much, but I am no longer the coward I was once – I think I want to be better, I want to be a better brother, a better son, a better citizen.” He was on a roll now. “You know what? I know you will hate me for it – ” he paused, inhaling and steading himself. “ – But I love you.” 

Wilbur blinked, pressed his lips and turned away. 

Ghostbur felt his heart break a little. If he tried straining his faint memory, this wasn't the first. The first was when Phil ran a sword into him and left a gaping hole in his chest.

The gaping hole never left him. He never understood why Phil would do such a thing, and after a while, he stopped asking. Even in the afterlife, it would cause him discomfort on cold nights, chilling gusts rushing through a figurative hollow.

“You don’t have to love me, Wil,” he muttered, closing his eyes tight to keep tears inside. If he needed to be strong to love, he would do that too. He would do it all, give away everything, cross the seventh ocean and travel every plain just to have Wilbur accommodate him in his heart. “There’s no need. Fundy didn’t too.” He heard Wilbur inhale sharply, and mentally cursed himself for slipping Fundy into the conversation. 

Well, he would make amends too. Ghostbur would do everything, and so he did. “Sometimes, you just love for the sake of loving," he told him.

When Wilbur said nothing, he continued: “There’s no taking in that kind of love– the kind of love I have for you. It’s the giving kind.” He paused. “I think you loved Fundy the same way. The kid’s not going to forgive you for a long time, fuck, maybe he never will. But I don’t believe you’ll stop loving him. You will curse him for never loving you back, you will curse yourself for ruining the chances he gave you, but you won’t stop loving him for even a heartbeat.”

At this point in time, Wilbur quietly picked up the three roses which still clung onto each other and to the frail twine holding them together and retightened the band around them.

That was when Ghostbur knew.  _ Techno, Phil, Tommy. _ He glanced back at the fourth rose which rested where he had placed it. Who was the fourth rose? Fundy?

Sunlight fell over them. Sometime soon, a gentle wind was going to wash over them and move apart the winter clouds, and they would bathe in the golden.

Ghostbur silently took Wilbur’s hand, squeezing softly. 

He wondered how long Wilbur was going to take to forgive himself. 

**Author's Note:**

> me trying to correct my awful inner talk through fics be like 
> 
> i hope you enjoyed! leave a kudos/comment if you did, every passing day i hunger more for the comments i dont get alright
> 
> as an oneshots person, user sub to me i beg. i need to feed my pet boot
> 
> ps, [my twitter](https://twitter.com/REDN0W_) for more bullshit


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